Vincent Price's Wicked Hangover
by hyperempathie
Summary: Pete and Michael contemplate starting a band.


_"Oh__, __mother__, __mother__, __malicious is the world_; _life, oh, my mother, is full of sorrow,"_ Peter droned, holding up his small, paperback book of miscellaneous poetry. The dream catcher hanging above his head swayed ominously.

The afternoon sun illuminated the room, specks of dust evident against the light. Peter Grey sat cross-legged on his large armchair, red and black slowly sliding down the back of his neck as he'd taken it upon himself to force Michael to re-dye his hair. The aforementioned boy, who had taken refuge on the floor, leaned back and coughed.

"Hardcore," the gangly boy replied absentmindedly as he flipped through the pages of one of Pete's comic books. In his defense, it _was_ limited edition.

"Were you even listening?" the irritated tone of Peter Grey's voice was accentuated by how soft it was, one wouldn't be able to notice he was pissed had they not heard him speak normally.

"Of course I was," he set it down and averted his attention to the other, "death, sorrow, gloom, _et cetera, et cetera ad infinitum_," his hook-like nose made him look like some lanky, black bird. If birds wore makeup and carried around canes they didn't need.

Pete rolled his eyes and tossed his notebook onto his messy, unmade bed, "_whatever_. What if I dyed my hair orange?" he suggested, twiddling his thumbs in a way that made it evident he wanted to run his hands through his hair, but couldn't. Michael looked at him and raised a brow, assessing the idea.

"I dare you."

"No way," he answered, "plus, none of my clothes would match," before rubbing his eye and scoffing at the realization that all the work he put into perfecting his elegantly-smudged eyeliner had gone to hell, "fuck."

"Looks better that way," his friend commented, leaning back and plucking his cigarette from the ashtray before he took a deep drag. He shut his eyes and put his arm up, letting the ash fall onto Pete's floor, "My head hurts," he hissed, "fuck this sun bullshit," and he put a hand in front of his face defensively, as if he would melt.

"I don't think a hangover and vampirism are the same thing. Anne Rice would be proud," and he cracked his knuckles.

"Write my biography," the boy cleared his throat, "'Michael lived an exciting life of chain smoking his problems away to a soundtrack'," he quoted, leaning back and taking another drag from his cigarette before blowing out a steady string of smoke rings.

"I hate you," he said, "how do you do that?"

"Fuck, just," he handed Pete the cigarette, "do like a silent cough thing," he felt verbally inept and weird.

"That makes no fucking sense," still, he inhaled and took Michael's advice though, to his dismay, it didn't work, "my lung capacity is shit. I'm not giving it back," he gestured towards the item in his hand before taking another drag, this time shallow.

Michael simply rolled his eyes, "go wash your hair," and he theatrically gestured his hand towards the door, shooing the other boy away.

"Make us some coffee while I'm gone, then," he went to flip his hair before realizing he couldn't and stopping himself halfway through.

"Whatever," though he stood up and walked out of Pete's room and into his small, messy kitchen, mumbling the words to _Happy House_ as he dug through the cabinets, wading through stashes of biscuits and cereal.

Pete walked out of the bathroom and ran his hands through his wet hair, pushing it out of his eyes as he looked for any sign that his friend had even made them coffee. He slowly made his way into his room and opened the door and, as soon as he did, Michael shoved a mug into his hands, "it's bitter," he began, "like you."

"Like me," he approved and took a sip, "we should start a band."

"That's sudden. What would we call it?" they both sat back down onto the floor.

"Something awesome like..." he put a finger to his jaw thoughtfully, looking up, "_Vincent Price's Wicked Hangover_. We would binge drink while doing Joy Division covers."

"Don't we already do that, though?"

"Good point," Pete tapped his fingers on the floor, "I bet this is how Bauhaus started," he coughed at the pungent smell of hair dye that clung to the air.

"Peter Murphy and Daniel Ash never made out," he commented.

"I'm pretty sure they have," Pete retaliated, running his hands through his hair again, "otherwise that makes us at least ten times more goth."


End file.
